


The Test of October

by bellinibeignet



Series: It's Easy to Remember [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:53:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellinibeignet/pseuds/bellinibeignet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur didn't know if they were friends, but he showed up with a bottle of champagne anyway, because someone like Eames should never spend a birthday alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Test of October

**Author's Note:**

> It isn't necessary to read the first part of the series, but it may help to give a full feel of my characterization. 
> 
> This is written from Arthur's angle, and, if you've read the first piece, you can probably tell that I enjoy writing from Eames' viewpoint more. Regardless, I hope this isn't awful. x
> 
> PS. I know the title is shite. We'll figure it out.

It was Arthur’s job – knowing. That was the excuse he gave himself whenever Eames’ location and plans floated to the top of his research. He was a point man, a well-respected one at that, and he found it in his best interest to know where dreamsharers were at any given moment. Of course, it wasn’t everyone all the time – Arthur was the most organized man in the world, and even he couldn’t keep track of a network that big – but knowing who was active and who was dealing with who remained priority.

He wondered, if Eames wasn’t active, would he still make sure he kept an eye out?

Dom wasn’t active anymore, but Arthur always knew where he was and what he was up to, just in case.

But, Dom was a friend, and Arthur wasn’t sure if he could say the same for Eames.

Arthur didn’t lose much sleep from that, though; friends weren’t something that Arthur ever really had or yearned for. He’d always been the type who knew how to be alone without getting lonely. When he wasn’t working, he would go for a drink by himself, or see a movie by himself, or take a trip to some discarded area with mountains and a forest for a few weeks, by himself. Until someone needed him.

And that was what Arthur considered fun. Most wouldn’t think that he was capable of leisure, and perhaps he wasn’t by most standards, but those few chances to vacate the role of point man weren’t something he took lightly. He had no desire to clutter those moments with half-friends he knew in the business, gambling away money in Vegas and whooping at sequined strippers. Anybody who thought Arthur would find those things enjoyable probably didn’t know him anyway.

That said, the most fun Arthur had, and would probably ever have, came with his job. He loved what he did, how he did it, and being known as the best. Even with the stress and working late with crooked folks. Even when he had a job that he didn’t necessarily agree with morally, he found himself pleased once the case closed.

There was no need for excess outside of dreamshare. He was content with the days he spent on his own, and the days he spent in Boston with his mother, and that was all he really desired.

That was before Eames.

People within dreamshare often found themselves sleeping with someone they’ve worked with. The chronic dreamsharers, anyway. It was a lot easier to meet someone in the business than to try dating someone on the outside. There was already an understanding, a sense of caution when dating someone within the community. No need to explain.

All the while, it was still quite complicated, wasn’t it? A business of skeptics, of the borderline paranoid. There were people who were trustworthy, but everyone was wary to call another a friend. The prospect of fucking the architect from the job in Sweden wasn’t a bad option, but trying to form something stable from that was a setup for failure. A hoard of men and women destined to never live out a romance, to never marry and have kids. That was the reality.

It was an unsaid contract that lived between Arthur and Mr. Eames. Of the ‘call me when you want me’ persuasion. Arthur didn’t assume that he was the only person the handsome Brit was sleeping with, and he couldn’t blame him if that was true. Whenever one of them wanted a bit of attention, the other was on a job, or too far away, or both. That made for a pretty shit arrangement, as far as sexual convenience went.

Still, Arthur wasn’t sleeping with anyone else. He didn’t have an exclusive arrangement with Mr. Eames – they weren’t dating and they didn’t belong to one another. In fact, they had only slept together a handful of times (since that wormhole of a night in Toronto) because of how rarely their schedules allowed room to play.

Yes. It was all rather complicated, but Arthur was content at the very least. He had no desire to find better suitability.

Perhaps that meant there was something different about Eames. That there was a bit of trust and camaraderie at the foundation to make Arthur consider it, make him think that it was worth a shot. Make him think that it had to be Eames or nothing at all.

Maybe that meant they were friends.

Or maybe it simply meant that sex with Eames was hard to top. 

“Dom said something about Thanksgiving.” Ariadne’s voice was staticky as it spilled through Arthur’s phone; the service going up M23 was never the strongest. “The Saito crew and the kids.”

“He mentioned it to me, yeah.”

“You won’t be working.”

“Probably not.”

“No. Not ‘probably’. You _won’t_ be working.”

He scoffed. “I’d like to concentrate on the road. Fucking freezing rain.”

“I won’t ask where you’re going.”

“You could.”

“I could. Drive safe.”

-

In the six months since inception, he’d been to Eames’ flat twice, both times having been invited, both times with clear intentions; tension seemed to become desperate for sating when working back-to-back jobs with nowhere to stick your prick, and Eames had no qualms about being up front.

+could you be in london this coming weekend? i have a job for you.

Of course Eames would be cheeky about it. If it was anyone else, that sort of double entendre may have made Arthur angry and put off. He took jobs seriously. But, it was Eames, and that text made Arthur fight a grin all those months ago. He couldn’t deny that, even with his professional guise, having someone to fuck when he had downtime was not something he lamented.

Tonight, however, there had been no text message. In fact, Arthur hadn’t heard a word from Eames in two months. That was understandable. There was no neediness about either of them, and even as halfway-friends who fully enjoyed fucking one another, riddling with ‘Hello. How are you?’ emails and phone calls wasn’t how they did things.

If there had ever been a concern about the other’s safety, perhaps there would’ve been. But, that had yet to become an issue.

Tonight was Eames’ birthday. Arthur knew that he’d just finished a long but successful job in Seoul, where he’d forged a mark’s best friend in order to learn a business plan. It went smoothly, and the client paid Eames more than fairly.

Yusuf said that Eames hadn’t made any mention of plans, and was probably going to lie out in his flat by himself for a while. He’d said it with a tone. “You’re a pair of anti-social buggers, I’ll tell you.”

Intrusive bastard. Arthur never went out of his way to speak to him unless it was necessary.

He approached the doorstep, knocking carefully, neither too loud nor too prim. Men in this business didn’t answer the door without a gun ready.

Eames lived in a row of flats that were the definition of inconspicuous, with the overgrown vines and cracked bricks and rickety gates. Somehow, it was charming, and looked like Eames’ personality, if that said anything.

The door slipped open, and Arthur suddenly found himself nervous. What if Yusuf was wrong? Eames was handsome, and even if he looked nothing like a Hoagie Carmichael type, he had an air of James Bond about him; he could be sly and extravagant all at the same time. No man that looked like him, that spoke like him, would have to spend a birthday, or any other day, alone.

What if someone else was coming over? What if he was going to a pub to pick someone up? What if he didn’t want company? What if Arthur was stepping out of bounds?

“Arthur?” He said it wish a subtle surprise, slightly confused. “I…” He huffed, looking past Arthur at the street as if he were expecting someone else, as Arthur feared. “You’re…not moonlighting as a rent-boy, are you?”

“What?” _What?_

“I called for the rent-boy over an hour ago.” His eyes sank over Arthur.

Arthur cocked his head to the side. His pupils had to be wide with embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I-“

Eames chuckled. “I’m kidding, Arthur.”

The relief in Arthur’s chest spilled into a warm blush in his cheeks. He silently blamed it on the cold rain of late-October. “You’re not funny.”

“Of course I am. What are you doing here?” He backed away so that Arthur could make his way in.

Arthur lifted the bottle of champagne he was carrying, and managed to smile, despite the joke Eames had made at his expense. “Happy birthday.”

When the honest look of surprise filled Eames’ face, Arthur realized then that it may be a little strange that he knew his birthday. Fuck, this wasn’t going as smoothly as he thought it would.

Then, Eames smiled, and his worry was immediately eradicated. He had such an easy smile.

“Come on.” Eames took the bottle of champagne and shutting the door. “Lose the coat before you catch cold.”

“Believe me. The cold is caught.”

Eames pointed for Arthur to make himself comfy in the living room whilst he went to the kitchen. “So, you came all of this way for my birthday?” he called out.

Arthur sat on the couch, eyes wandering. Admittedly, in the times before this visit, he hadn’t had much time to take in the space, having Eames push him straight into the bedroom and all.

Tonight, there was a book open on the coffee table. _Infinite Jest_. It was dog-eared, the spine broken enough that it could lie open without losing place. Arthur leaned over it, finding pencil-marked annotations. ‘You will become way less concerned with what other people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.’Underlined thickly, and a small note that said _Jesus Christ fuck me_.

“Uh, I didn’t have to come far,” Arthur said. “I was only in Brighton.”

That wasn’t a lie. He was in Boston, flew to Brighton to scope out a new architect, and spent the night there. That had all been a way of convincing himself that he wasn’t only there for Eames, that this was just a convenient act.

Eames chuckled, as if he knew this wasn’t spur of the moment. He couldn’t possibly have known that, could he? He couldn’t have known that, when Arthur realized Eames’ birthday was coming up in a few weeks, he put a reminder in his phone, and made sure he would have some excuse to be near London.

“Well,” Eames said with a grunt, interrupted by the pop of a cork and bubbling of the champagne. “It’s nice to see you.”

Arthur looked up, and for the first time, he took in the sight: his charcoal colored t-shirt, fitting. The emblem of golden swords and the bright red crown with the word ARMY stitched under it was sitting at his right pectoral, and it was curious to see him wearing it. Imagining Eames as a strict and tense-shouldered military man could be considered a stretch. Still, he must’ve been. Arthur knew his file was blemish free, and the old uniform Arthur saw hanging in his open closet on a previous visit had three stars on the shoulder. A captain’s insignia.

As if he enjoyed walking around in his spare time as a tease, his hugging shirt was joined by a hanging pair of dark blue sweat pants, lovely on his hips, swimming across his stocky thighs. Any gingered movements would give Arthur a fair sight of the man’s stomach.

Arthur was good at a pokerface, thank God. He hadn’t come here for anything but to offer his company as… well… a friend, he guessed.

“To a happy thirty-first birthday,” Arthur smiled as Eames handed him a full flute.

“Oy!” Eames groaned, stopping him from drinking. “You come for my birthday and give a shit toast like that?”

Arthur chuckled. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I can only remember begging you for something once, and I don’t think it was to come see me on my birthday.” He shot him a knowing smirk. “Come on. Gotta give me something.”

Arthur huffed. He wasn’t the type for embellishing loving speeches. That was Eames’ forte, with his lush voice and his torn copy of David Foster Wallace on his coffee table.

It was his birthday however.

“Uh, well.” Arthur stood and raised his glass lazily into the air. “To Mr. Eames: dreamshare’s most valuable forger. He, uh, is a lot smarter than he looks – I learned that the hard way. Never judge a book by its cover.” God, what was he saying?

But, Eames chuckled, and Arthur took that as a good sign.

“Even though he’s always egging me about my lack of imagination, and he wears the ugliest shirts I have ever seen, he’s not an awful guy, and I wish him well. For this birthday, and future birthdays, I hope you’re happy.”

They drank, and Arthur plopped down into the couch, exasperated. “I told you I wasn’t good with words.”

“No, no, mate,” Eames grinned, already pouring another glass. “It was nice. Gave me the fuzzies. Promise.”

“So were you really going to sit on the couch and read angst fiction?” Arthur scoffed, pointing at the book.

“I think the better question is why you wore a vest and slacks to come visit me for my birthday?” He turned in his seat, propping an arm up on the back of the couch so that he could rest his head in his palm, interested.

“Business. I drove straight here.”

“Well. No business tonight, yeah?”

“No. None.” He slipped from his vest and tie, aware of Eames watching him. As he unlatched two buttons from his shirt, he thought that it would be a good night.

 

-

 

“First job.”

Arthur laughed at that, and maybe it was because he was warm with champagne. Or maybe it was the memory flooding back. “I started out as an architect,” he said. “Did you know that?”

“Uh uh.”

“Yeah, and I was alright. The first job, I didn’t even know it was a job. Dom saw me in a coffeeshop drawing out some sketches and he gave me this cryptic speech, and I went with him. But I was a lost kid, you know? A coming-of-age story waiting to happen.

“Anyway, we went to this warehouse, there were two other guys there, and they literally gave me a five minute explanation about dreamsharing, and I was in.”

“You serious?”

Arthur nodded. “I built two levels during a train ride, then we stole something from some business tycoon. To this day, I don’t know what it was, but the job was done, and I was hooked.”

Eames smiled, standing when he noticed the bottle of champagne was empty. “We needed something stronger anyway, yeah?” he murmured, going to the bar in the corner of the living room.

Arthur's throat went wet with the memories of their first time together in Toronto, lusting and only meagerly intoxicated. Arthur could manage some strong drinks in the right frame of mind, but hadn't come here with the intentions of getting drunk. Especially since Eames claimed that he didn't like drinking all of that much anyway (although, still, Arthur thought this was a lie). But there Eames was, perusing his liquor, trying to find something to up the ante of champagne.

Well... It was his birthday, so Arthur decided to let it be.

“Can’t lie and say that I’m not surprised,” Eames grunted, deciding on a bottle of whiskey and bringing it back to the couch. Arthur fixed his lips to remind him that he needed glasses, but Eames twisted the top open and put it directly to his lips.

“Surprised about what?” Arthur asked.

“That someone like you would see the stranger with candy and jump in the van,” he chuckled.

“Someone like me.”

Eames breathed and handed the bottle off. “Don’t take offense. You’re a bit of a hardass, we both know.”

At that, Arthur took a long draw from the bottle, and breathed out a huff of air to smooth the burn. “Yeah, well. I wasn’t much of a hardass then, trust me.”

“Mmhmm. Your turn.”

Arthur licked his lips as he sat the bottle down on the table. They’d pushed the table away an hour ago and were sitting on the floor, much closer than they had been when they were on the couch, close enough so that a deep exhale could be felt by the other. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“Eh. We’ll see about that.”

“What did you want to be when you grew up?”

“Have I grown up? Is this whole life of mine final now?”

“Just answer the question asshole.”

Eames’ eyebrows rose, entertained by the jab. “Uh, let’s see. I come from a military family, so I sort of always wanted to be a soldier. But I guess, secretly, I always wanted to be an actor.”

Arthur laughed, but he didn’t mean for it to be harsh. Eames knew it. “An actor?”

“Mmhmm. So it all makes sense now, yeah?”

Arthur shrugged.

“Started out as an extractor – I’m a pretty good thief, as you know. But I thought to myself that I wasn’t the directing type – that’s for folks like you and Dom. Sure, I could do it, but I’d be bloody bored, wouldn’t I?”

“How did you figure it out?”

“That’d be two questions. It’s my turn. First kiss.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah. And drink. I want to see how much more red your ears can get.”

“Fuck you.”

“It is my birthday, huh?”

Arthur breathed in, then obliged his wish to take another drink, a small one. If Eames noticed that it wasn’t a full shot, he didn’t say anything. “I didn’t get my first kiss until I was twelve. This girl Arya. She was a bit of a tomboy. It was, uh, only curiosity then, I suppose.

“I actually took her to my senior prom. She dragged me there, because I certainly didn’t want to go. We were sort of beards to one another at that point, even if we didn’t know it.” He laughed to himself. “God if I’d only known then what I know now.”

Arya had come out of her tomboy stage when they entered high school. She didn’t necessarily jump into wearing dresses, but she started wearing clothes that fit to her body and letting her hair down. Arthur remembered liking her hair – light brown and curly and untamed. He wondered if she’d ever started to love it the way that he had.

If there was ever a woman he had the chance of being with, it would’ve been her. She’d been an outcast because she was quiet (and probably because she hung out with Arthur so much), but every guy loved her, with her quaint lips and bright green eyes. She was something to behold.

Still, there had always been something missing.

When they shared their second kiss on prom night, Arthur had actually been nervous. He wanted to want her. He felt like it would be a shame not to, but he never had a chance.

His only other kiss in those years had been done in secret with a guy in his history class. He was quiet, dark, and built like a football player, although he wasn’t a jock, and Arthur couldn’t keep his eyes from him on his strongest days.

Then, they were chosen as partners for a project. It didn’t take a long before they were on the floor of Arthur’s bedroom, amongst a poster board and a biography on FDR. Arthur had a tongue down his throat and a hand rubbing at his jeans, and he was absolutely fucking struck. Maybe that was fate, a push in the right direction

It never felt like that with Arya.

“She got married to some guy she met in art school,” Arthur said thoughtfully, and he was probably talking to himself. He’d always been under the impression that Arya liked women, and maybe she did. Maybe it was more complicated than that. “We don't get to talk much anymore, but I miss her all of the time. She still sends a Christmas card to my mom’s house.”

He hoped that she was happy.

“Do you go to see her on her birthday?” Eames asked, and it was almost cheeky, but not quite.

Arthur looked at him with honest eyes. “That’s another question.”

With a bit of a slack jaw, Eames snickered and nodded to himself, taking the liquor bottle and bringing a drag from it. “Well then.”

“Who are you closest to: your mom or your dad?”

There was a shift in Eames’ posture. It wasn’t discomfort, at least, not that Arthur could tell. It caught him off guard.

“Uh, I suppose that’s a trick question in some ways.” He drank again. “I got on with my mum much better than I did with my dad. She died of cancer when I was in the army.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.

“And my dad and I always butted heads. He drank a lot, shagged other women, you know, the lot of it. He tried to be a father when I got older - when I was out of the military and jumping around from country to country on my own. I wasn’t having it.” He huffed.

“When did you last speak to him?”

He didn’t comment about Arthur breaking the rules. “Over a year ago when I actually answered the phone. Another argument. Same old, same old. Saying he’d stopped drinking and that he was a changed man. Missed mum and all of that.”

They sat in silence.

“He died a few days ago, actually,” Eames finally said with a heavy sigh, air filling his stubbly cheeks. “The timely bastard.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t. Really. It’s fine.” He was being truthful. “What about you? I have a feeling you’re a mother’s boy, too.”

Arthur wondered how Eames could be so airy, so loose, and still so shockingly dominant. “I am. I was a moody kid without a dad, so I gave her some trouble as a teenager. I appreciate her much more now. I always make sure I call her, tell her I love her. She supports me despite my job.”

“She knows what you do?”

Arthur grinned. “Yeah. I went to school here in England, started for a degree in architecture, but then I met Dom and instantly knew what it was that I wanted to do. I told Mom that I had a job that wasn’t exactly legal, and she asked if I was hurting anyone, and I said no. She said to do what makes me happy, and she’s supported me ever since.”

Eames cocked his head to the side, staring at Arthur’s mouth in a way that sent a shudder through his shoulders. Eames had given him languid and provoking looks in the past, but this one was far simpler, not so involved. He seemed happy that Arthur was happy. Like a friend.

“How about a new game?” Arthur suggested, standing.

“Oh yeah?”

Arthur went to the one section of his bookshelf that wasn’t crammed with novels. His sound system: piles of burned CDs and an iPod plugged into some high-end music dock. “I play a song, and you tell me what it makes you think of.”

“That’s a bit abstract, isn’t it?”

Arthur cocked his head thoughtfully, rubbing his toes into the carpet. When had he taken his socks off? “How about you play a song that reminds you of me?”

Eames stood and made his way over. Standing close enough for Arthur to smell the liquor on his breath and skin, he took the iPod up in his hands with his eyes still on Arthur’s. “Alright then,” he said, voice as husky as usual, finally tearing his gaze from Arthur to look at the device.

He kept his body turned into Arthur, the body Arthur knew to the brink of every delicious angle and thickness. He was standing so close that Arthur could feel the musky scent of soap and sweat wafting toward him. If Arthur was drunker, he just might fall into him and have his way.

But. That wasn’t why he was there.

 “Ah, here. Let’s try this.”

The tinkering of a piano spilled from the speakers, and the thick sound of a trumpet joined in slowly but surely. Arthur was almost surprised – he’d expected something cheeky or corny, a rap song even, something to tease him. But it seemed like a legitimate choice.

“I should’ve known you listened to jazz music,” Arthur said lowly, pretending to be enthralled with the bookshelf. And he was a little bit. Eames was every bit of a grab-bag: a military man with daddy issues and a thoughtful shelf of secondhand books. And paisley in his closet.

“Yes, I suppose you should have.” Eames went to the coffee table where the bottle was sitting. He took a long swig, for good measure it seemed. Arthur was more noticeably tipsy than Eames. “Don’t wanna be shown up do we?” he grinned, capping the bottle and putting it back behind the bar.

“Who is this?”

“Marsalis. Do you like it?” He leaned against the bar, and Arthur immediately thought back to that first time they’d spoken at length in a Mumbai bar. Arthur preferred seeing him in sweats and a t-shirt than his business clothing, but either way, he was striking.

“I didn’t expect it, but it’s nice. And you think this sounds like me?”

Eames shrugged, pushing himself off the bar to stand in the middle of the floor. He nodded for Arthur to join him, and, in a trance, Arthur obliged. Eames gave a crooked grin, for permission, and he slipped his hands to Arthur’s hips. “Well, I don’t exactly have a playlist of songs that remind me of my lover. I’m doing the best I can.”

Arthur knew he was blushing. “I didn’t mean-“

“Joke, Arthur.” Eames gave him a squeeze, forcing him to move his body from side to side. “Now… I know you know how to move those hips of yours.”

Arthur smirked. “Now you’re getting fresh with me,” he said, accepting as Eames brought him closer until they were dancing pelvis to pelvis, Arthur’s hands at the tattoos on Eames’ biceps.

“Is that against the rules?”

Arthur shook his head no. “I hate dancing.” He was still smiling.

“Well, you have lovely hips for it, and it is my birthday, so I suppose I get whatever I want.”

“By the way, when is your rent-boy getting here? I’d hate to get in the way.”

Eames grinned. “I think I like drunken Arthur.”

“Pfft. I’m not drunk. You don’t want to see that.”

“Oh, but I think I’d like it.”

“I do this… really bad impression of Axl Rose.”

“Now that sounds terrifying.”

“You’re not a bad dancer yourself.”

“Did you expect me to be?”

“Uhm… no. No, now that I think about it.”

“I’d dip you if I didn’t think you would kick me in the arse for it.”

“Oh, that is definitely ‘kick your arse’ territory.”

“Figured.”

“How do you do it? Forge.”

“Imagination.”

“Which I lack.”

“You know I’m just taking the piss when I say that.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“It’s not easy. You have to know the romantics of the person, not just what they look like. You have to know their tells and gestures, the way words come off the tongue – enough to mimic their soul.”

“Sounds a bit manic.”

“Don’t we have to be a bit bonkers in this business?”

“I suppose so.”

“I can tell you’re trying to test us - see if we can carry on conversation without a shag. But I’m a bit warm and slightly gassed so… I might kiss you.”

Arthur swallowed. “You have about seven minutes before your birthday ends, and, as you said, you can have what you want.”

A smirk filled Eames’ prominent lips, and he nodded, agreeing.

And then they danced, slowly, in a circle as one song bled into the next, and Eames’ birthday blended into just another day. There was silence, and God, the liquor was burning, churning a bubble of heat around them.

Finally, “Guess you missed your window of opportunity,” said Arthur.

“I wanted to kiss you without pretense.” He pinched at Arthur’s hips again.

“Did you enjoy your birthday?” Arthur asked, and he could already feel his throat growing wet, like the first time Eames laid on top of him with heavily-lidded eyes and that fucking grin.

“More than I expected to, yes.” His grin dropped, just long enough to say, “Thank you.”

Kissing Eames felt a lot like sinking into the cool side of a pillow, him melding into every curve and contour of Arthur’s lips, shooting a chill down his pores. The slip of his tongue was a reminder of his warm and calloused hands, and how they felt good on the skin of Arthur’s thighs and hips when they…

But. That wasn’t what why he was here.

“I’m going to be honest,” Eames whispered, pulling away just enough to speak. “I… might be a little drunk.”

Arthur gave a quiet laugh. “I think it’s just… hot.”

“I’d like to lay with you.”

Arthur pursed his lips.

“I’m not having a perv, love, I promise. I just think I might fall over. I’m… more tired than I thought.”

Arthur loved Eames’ bedroom, with its exposed brick walls and the oversized armoire holding his television and the cedar chest at the end of the bed. For some reason, Arthur never wondered what was inside of it. He’d concluded that he was in no real rush to satiate his curious questions about Eames. There would be more days, more time to receive secrets. If he had anything to do with it.

Eames offered a set of clothes to change into, and Arthur shook his head no before quietly slipping down to his boxers. He could feel Eames watching him, not bothering to pretend.

“Tell me something interesting,” Arthur asked quietly, crawling into the bed.

Eames slipped his shirt off and climbed in as well. He lay on his stomach, eyes Arthur’s way, a small smile. “Haven’t I told you enough interesting things already?”

Arthur waited.

“Uh… let’s see…”

Arthur watched his eyes become thoughtful, searching his memories for something worth saying. Arthur couldn’t help but wonder which memories he was skipping over, the ones he found too sacred and too trivial. He wanted to hear them anyway.

“I was a fighter in the military. My dad taught me to box, and I did kickboxing as well in school.”

“Any good?”

Eames only smiled. “I should go to sleep.”

Arthur nodded, and before he could think to say good night, Eames turned on his back and pulled Arthur in to lie on his chest.

Eames was asleep before long, and Arthur listened to his heart beating under his ear, the heavy sound of breath. The only light in the room was from the sliver of moonlight passing through the window, and, for some reason, Arthur thought of his die, the totem he hadn’t sought to touch all night.

When Eames played with his totem, it seemed to be out of a fidgety habit – something to touch while he thought aloud. Arthur, however, needed his more often than he liked to admit. Fortunately, it wasn’t because he felt that he was losing grip on reality. He just liked to be cautious. He was working the most he ever had in his career, and he’d heard enough stories to make him, an admitted skeptic, double-check.

Tonight, he hadn’t touched it at all. It was in the pocket of his coat, somewhere on the living room floor.

 

-

 

Arthur woke up at sunrise, like his body always did, and let his mind adjust to morning. He’d turned on his side in the night, away from Eames. He could feel Eames’ breath against his spine. They were close, and not quite spooning, but, if Arthur had ever felt like he couldn’t take care of himself, this would have been a moment where he felt security.

Eames’ flat didn’t seem to enjoy idleness, much like its owner. The sink in the en-suite bathroom was leaking, the ping of water in the basin loud and steady. The heater was humming in the corner, and the frost on the window was making a crackling noise as the temperature inside the flat fought against the weather outside.

It was nice. Arthur didn’t want to move from that spot.

But, the clock told him he had to do otherwise.

Arthur slid out of bed, grabbed his clothes, and found a bathroom at the other end of the house so that he could ready himself without waking Eames.

Eames. Thirty-one year old, newly orphaned, ex-boxer Eames, who wasn’t a bad dancer, who wasn’t as strong of a drinker as he seemed, who smelled good, who hadn’t tried to get a gratuitous birthday fuck, who had planned to read  David Foster Wallace until he fell asleep on the couch to celebrate his day. Eames.

He found a piece of paper and pen in the kitchen, and started to jot down a note when he realized he wasn’t sure what to say.

‘Text me next time you need a shag. A.’

‘You’re a snoring old man, but I had a good time. A.’

‘You’re…’

Finally, he scribbled down _It was nice to see you. x._ in his scratchy hand writing, and went back to the bedroom, stepping quietly to Eames’ nightstand. He started to slip the note under the book that was lying there, to be sure it wouldn’t fly away, when the bed creaked.

“The money’s on the dresser,” Eames said groggily.

Arthur looked down at him, only slightly startled, but Eames’ eyes were open and there was a cheeky smile.

And damn if he wasn’t a sight, lying there, scratching at the tattoo on his chest, yawning, looking up at Arthur with a dazed expectation, like maybe he’d been dreaming of him.

“You really sneaking out on me?” Eames chuckled.

“I actually have to get to Tokyo. I have a job.” He said it like it was an apology.

“Hmm,” was all Eames said, looking at him for a moment, then sitting up, swinging his legs around so that his feet touched the floor. He reached out and pulled at the hem of Arthur’s vest. “You can’t give me an hour?”

That made Arthur blush, because damn.

“I have to get back to Brighton, then I’m on a plane.” He groaned as Eames squeezed his hips. He let his eyes flick to the ridges in the man’s stomach, the old scars he’d yet to explain, the erect material of his boxers.

“Okay,” Eames said, pulling him down close enough to meet his lips. “Okay,” he said again, a groan, like he wasn’t convinced.

Arthur sighed against his mouth. “Don’t put me in that position.”

“I can assure you, love, you’d like whatever position I put you in without complaint.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, then allowed himself to enjoy the kiss, sinking into Eames until they were on the brink of toppling down into the bed.

“I have to go,” Arthur finally said, biting gently at Eames’ lower lip.

Dramatically, Eames fell back and grunted. “I never liked Japan.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them that, Mr. Eames.” He gave Eames a once over. “Uh, I should be back in about two weeks. Well, I mean, done with the job in two weeks. I could stop by before I head back to Boston. If you’d like.”

Eames shared that crooked grin. “If I’d like,” he repeated. “I’d _like_ you to stay here right now, but that isn’t an option.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yes. If I’m not on a job, sure. Two weeks.”

“Two weeks.”

The funny thing was that Arthur tended to think about that guy from his high school history class for a long time after that fateful study session. Strangely, they'd never spoken again. The tension was always around them, always there, lurking. Perhaps they both wanted to say something about it, admit something, but never figured out how to say the words. Who knew what could have been?

Now, for the life of him, Arthur couldn’t even remember the guy’s name. 

**Author's Note:**

> Eames plays the song 'In the Afterglow' by Wynton Marsalis. It isn't supposed to sound /exactly/ like Arthur. It is more of a reflection of the way Arthur is forged in Eames' mind - the distant closeness he feels because they have only been with one another a handful of times. And it sets the scene pretty nicely. Lovely song, yeah? I love the thought of them dancing in that living room. Ah. 
> 
> I have three future pieces for this verse. Hopefully one will be up soon.


End file.
